


And Miles to Go

by clgfanfic



Category: War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:43:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old friend of Paul's is hurt and that brings back some painful memories from the colonel's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Miles to Go

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Delicious Agony, Vulgar Ecstasy and later in One In Ten #7 under the pen name JP Cads.
> 
> This story includes a scene where Ironhorse remembers being raped when he was a young man. His telling of the event includes some graphic details.

"That's where I learned what real brutality is.  It's all about power.  What you can do to another human being."

 

          Ironhorse sat at his desk, forcing himself through the jargon-riddled pages of Suzanne's latest status report on her bacteriological research.  The inescapable conclusion was: he needed another couple of graduate-level courses in microbiology and genetics to decipher it.  The soft warble of the telephone was a welcome distraction.

          "Ironhorse," he sighed, expecting it to be Harrison with his latest scheme.

          There was a brief pause, then the voice of his executive officer at Ft. Streeter stated, "Sir, we've just received an emergency call at the switchboard."

          "From Whitewood?" he asked, hoping Sylvia wasn't having one of her attacks again.

          "No, sir.  It was for you."

          The black eyebrows arched in surprise.  "Go ahead, Major."

          The officer gave Ironhorse the call-back number, adding, "The caller's name was Alex Sutton.  The message was: 'Tony is in Memorial hospital.  Please call.'  I hope it's nothing serious, Colonel."

          "Thank you, Major," Paul replied softly.  "I'll get on it."

          Ironhorse hung up, then leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, the warm room suddenly chill.  Tony.  Hurt?

          He needed to make that call, but his body refused to move, locked in the rigor of old memories Ironhorse had thought long buried.  Memories of pain and humiliation.  How had it happened?  He'd seen Tony last when?  Almost five years ago?

          _So long?_   He shook his head.  The army had kept him busy, then the aliens, but he'd spoken to the man less than a week ago.

          Tony was in the hospital.  The hospital.  Hospital?  _What the hell had happened?_   he wondered, trying to push away the panic that clawed through his guts.

          Please call…  Please call…  Please call.

          With effort he leaned forward, picking up the receiver and tapping out the number.  It rang twice before an answering machine picked up and Tony's cheerful voice announced:  "Hi, Tony and Alex can't come to the phone right now, so, please, leave your name, number and a short message.  We'll get back to you as soon as we can.  Thanks."

          The beep sounded and Paul depressed the switch hook.  With a deep breath he dialed Rochester information, asking for the number to Memorial Hospital.

          A crisp female voice answered.  "Rochester Memorial Hospital, how may I direct your call?"

          "I'm calling to inquire about a patient."

          "Name?"

          "Anthony D'Califlurio."

          "Yes.  We do have a patient here by that name, but I'm afraid we're not able to give you any information on his condition over the phone."

          "I understand.  Is there any way I can have Alex Sutton paged to see if he's in the hospital?"

          "Is he a doctor?"

          "No, a friend of Mr. D'Califlurio's."

          "I'll transfer you to the nurse's station and they can page the waiting room."

          "Thank you."

          Paul waited, listening to the transfer click and several moments of silence before a second woman said, "I.C.U., may I help you?"

          The colonel's breath caught in his chest and he had to force the words past his lips.  "I need to page Mr. Alex Sutton.  He's a visitor."

          "Yes, I saw him just a minute ago.  One moment, please."

          Empty air filled the receiver while Paul waited, drumming his fingers on the desk.  What was taking so long?

          He picked up the pencil he'd been using to make notes on Suzanne's report and twirled it through his fingers, then tapped the eraser end on the open pages.

          "Hello?"

          "Alex?"

          "Yes."

          "It's Paul Ironhorse.  How's Tony?"

          "Paul, I'm so glad you called.  I wasn't sure the message was going to get to you.  Tony's been in a car accident.  He's had surgery, and the doctors feel optimistic about it, but…"

          "But?"

          "He's in a coma."

          "Oh, Christ," the colonel breathed.  "How long?"

          "Going on fourteen hours.  Paul, I'm worried.  I know he'd want me to tell you.  Is there any way you can come out here?"

          Ironhorse's eyes dropped closed.  "I don't think so."

          "The doctors are trying to keep him from sinking any deeper.  His family's on the way, but I thought it might help if he heard your voice…  I understand, though, Uncle Sam's your boss and you have to do what he tells you."

          "Yeah," Ironhorse ground out roughly.  "I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything."

          "I understand."

          "Please, keep me informed if there's any change.  I'll give you the number for my executive officer.  He'll make sure the messages get to me.  I'm at a secure location, or I'd give you a direct number."

          "It's okay, so long as I can let you know how he's doing.  Go ahead."

          Paul rattled off the number, then asked after Alex before hanging up.  Dropping back against his chair, he stared at the ceiling.  The aliens had been quiet for several days, there wasn't anything urgent going on…

          No.  He had a mission.  A duty.  That had to come first.

          Coma.  Sinking further.

          With a frustrated groan, he pushed himself to his feet and stalked out of his office.  Brushing past Blackwood, he headed for the front door, slamming it behind him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison watched the door rattle in its frame, then shook his head and continued on to the living room, where he found Suzanne curled up in one of the wing-backed chairs near the fire, reading.

          "You and Ironhorse just have a fight?"

          She looked up from her experimental log.  "Excuse me?"

          "I'll take that as a no," Blackwood said with a smile.  Walking over, he dropped down onto the couch.  "The Colonel just stormed out."

          "That was Paul?  I thought it was Debi.  I wonder what's up."

          "Don't know," Harrison replied, pushing himself up again.  "But I was on my way to see if there was any of Mrs. P's pasta salad left; care to join me?"

          Suzanne considered for a moment, then nodded.  "Why not?" she said, standing.  "Think we should invite the Colonel?"

          "I think he'd be happier shooting something right now."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Leaving the Cottage, Ironhorse paused momentarily on the front porch.  He was overreacting.  Maybe it was Sara Cole's death, he reasoned.  There's no reason he should be rattled by this.  He headed for the barn.  Entering, he walked over to one of the occupied stalls.  Debi's small bay mare munched happily on her evening oats, but looked up and gave him a welcoming whicker.

          "No, it's not time for a ride," he told the mare with a half-smile.  She shook her head and shoved her nose back into her bucket.

          With a sigh he leaned against the door and reached out to scratch her withers.  "Well, little lady, what do I do?"

          She snorted against the bottom of the bucket, her ears twitching back to listen.

          "Call Wilson and tell him I need a couple of days off?"

          He shook his head.  Tony was a good friend, a _very_ good friend.  More like a brother, Paul admitted to himself.  And he was in trouble.  Alex wouldn't have called if it wasn't serious.

          "But _this_ is my mission," he argued with the horse, who ignored him.  "I'm _not_ a civilian.  I knew what I was giving up when I accepted the assignment.  Besides, what could I do except sit in the waiting room and… wait?"

          _And if he dies?_ he answered himself silently.

          "If, if, if," he muttered to himself.  "If the aliens move.  If they need me.  If I'm in New York and something goes wrong."

          _Can you deal with it?  If he dies.  Are you going to regret not saying good-bye when you had the chance?_

          "When has there ever been time to say goodbye?" he whispered roughly.  The mare's head rose and she blinked at him.

          _You'll let him slip away… like all the other ghosts_.

          A soft nicker and the bay pressed closer to the hand that continued to scratch along her neck.

          _You're running_.

          "I have a mission," he said, pushing away from the stall and heading back for his office.  "That has to come first."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison watched Ironhorse push his breakfast around on his plate, then give up altogether with a soft frustrated sigh.  Standing, the colonel excused himself and headed for his office.

          Laying down his fork, Blackwood started to follow, but Suzanne stopped him, reaching out to grab his arm.

          "Harrison, leave him alone."

          Blackwood sat.  "Something's bothering him, Suzanne, and I want to know what it is.  Maybe it's something to do with Sara Cole again."

          "If he wants you to know, he'll tell you," she said.  "I'd think you'd have learned your lesson."

          "It's the phone calls," Debi stated matter-of-factly, reaching out to snatch the last two pieces of bacon out from under Norton's questing hand.  She smiled triumphantly.

          "Phone calls?" the hacker asked, his hand automatically diving for the last mini-blueberry muffin in the basket, just beating her to the treat.

          She nodded.  "I hear the Colonel's phone ringing a lot, and he talks real quiet.  It's gotta be that."

          Harrison and Suzanne exchanged surprised looks.  "When I think about it, she's right," Harrison said.  "I just hadn't put the two together."

          Suzanne gave him a warning look.  "You should still leave him alone."

          "But he's not eating," Harrison argued, then turning to Norton asked, "Can you find out who's been calling?"

          Norton shook his head.  "I value my life more than that, Harrison."

          "But I'm the boss."

          "He's the soldier."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Sitting at his desk, Ironhorse stared at the phone.  A soft knock on the door interrupted his waiting.  "Come," he called, hoping it wasn't Blackwood, and berating himself for not noticing to begin with.

          Suzanne opened the door and entered, closing it behind her.

          "What can I do for you, Doctor?"

          Sliding into the chair across from the colonel, she smiled sympathetically.  "I just came to warn you, Harrison's feeling paternal."

          Ironhorse's face folded into a frown, his eyebrows colliding above his nose.  "Thanks," he replied half-heatedly.  He'd been waiting for that to start.  "I'll watch my back."

          "Anything I can do?"

          He shook his head.

          She pushed herself up and stood.  "Okay, but if you keep skipping meals and acting like a bear that should be hibernating, he's going to make your life miserable."

          Ironhorse leaned back in his chair.  "Damn it, Suzanne, it's none of his business!  Can't a man have a little privacy around here?"

          "I know that, and you know that, but you also know Harrison.  He can't help himself."  She sat back down.  "Is this related to Sara's death?"

          "No."  He recognized the skeptical expression.  "Really."

          "Okay…"

          Paul's lips pressed into a paper-thin line and his head dropped for a moment, then rose slightly as he looked up at the woman.  "It's… personal.  A… friend of mine was in an accident."

          "Oh," she said, standing and stepping closer to the desk, "what do the doctors say?"

          He sighed, leaning back into his chair.  "That the injuries aren't that severe, but he's not waking up."

          She stepped around to the side of the desk and leaned back against it.  "Are you going to go see him?"

          Paul gave his head a short shake.  "I can't.  I have work to do here.  I have a mission—"

          "Yes, you can," she interrupted.  "Paul, we've all taken time off for personal reasons.  It's not like you'd be out of contact with us.  Take your mobile phone.  If anything happens we'll let you know.  And I know Omega can handle anything, with or without you, for a few days."

          He shook his head again.  "This is different.  I'm not a civilian, Suzanne.  The mission has to come first."

          "If you say so," she said.  "But I think you're wrong.  We have to be people first, Paul.  Take care of your soul, too."  Shoving off the desk, she walked to the door, pausing.  "Mrs. P's making lasagna for lunch.  I hope you'll join us?"

          "Thanks," he said, watching her leave.

          He wanted to call, but…   _No_ , he thought.  Sara Cole's death had stirred up too many old memories.  They'd gotten out of control.  _The last time I let something sit I ended up seeing a shrink.  I won't make that mistake again_.

          He reached out and picked up the phone.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse paused with his hand on the front door knob.  "Yes, Doctor?"

          Emerging from the doorway to his office, Harrison walked over to stand beside Ironhorse, his close proximity making the soldier uncomfortable.

          "Going now, Colonel?" the astrophysicist asked.

          Paul felt his jaw tighten slightly.  "Yes."

          Blackwood edged closer.  "Any idea when you'll be back?"

          The black eyes narrowed, but he knew Harrison wasn't as callous as he sounded.  He just wasn't sure about what to say.  And why not?  Paul hadn't been particularly forthcoming with his explanation.  "I'm taking a day or two off.  I have a personal matter I have to attend to.  I've made arrangements with General Wilson to have a Delta Force field commander stationed at Ft. Streeter in case we get alien activity."

          "Colonel?"

          "As soon as I can, Harrison," Ironhorse said, standing his ground and refusing to move.  "I've left numbers with Sergeant Derriman if you need to get in touch with me while I'm in route."

          "I'm sure that won't be necessary," Blackwood assured, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other.  "And I want you to take as much time as you need."

          "This isn't a vacation, Blackwood."

          Harrison's back stiffened.  "I realize that, Colonel.  It's just that I know that whatever this is, it's got you upset.  I think you need time to deal with it.  And I want you to know that, well, that we're here for you," he said, adding quickly, "If you need us.  Just be sure to get whatever this is taken care of before you rush back here.  We'll be fine."

          "Thank you, Doctor," Ironhorse said through tightening jaws.  Blackwood meant well, but sometimes he had the depth of swamp scum.  Opening the door Paul stalked to the parking area and climbed into the waiting car.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison watched Ironhorse leave before he closed the front door and headed downstairs to the computer lab.  In the pit of his stomach he knew he hadn't handled the situation right.  But how was he supposed to know what to say if Ironhorse wouldn't open up and tell him what was going on?  After all, he was the head of the Project…

          He found Norton right where he expected him, behind his terminal screen.  "Hey, mon," Harrison said lightly, his hands descending on Drake's shoulders.  "What'cha doin'?"

          "Correlating alien transmissions," he replied, fully engrossed.

          "Did you get that information?"

          Norton's attention shifted and he looked up at the astrophysicist.  "Harrison, it's _none_ of our business."

          "Norton, yes, it is."

          "How d'ya figure, Doc?"

          "I'm the head of this Project, right."

          "That's one man's opinion, yeah."

          Blackwood leveled the hacker with a disapproving frown.  "And Ironhorse is a member of this Project, right?"

          "Your point?"

          "Norton, how am I supposed to head up this Project if I don't know what's going on?  Something's got the Colonel upset and I want to know what it is."

          "I'll work on it," Drake replied, fixing his attention back on the terminal screen.

          "Now, Norton."

          Drake shook his head.  "You'll be sorry."

          "Maybe," Harrison said striding for the stairs.  "But at least I won't be in the dark."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Thanks to the Air Force, the trip to New York was completed in half the time of a commercial flight.  Paul grudgingly admitted to himself that he was impressed

with the technology, and the way the top secret plane handled.  Still, he'd rather face Blackwood at his worst before he told the pilot that.  It was hard to feel beholden to the Air Force.

          "We'll be landing momentarily," the pilot's voice echoed over his radio link.

          "Thank you," Ironhorse replied.

          "You're welcome, Colonel.  Always happy to do the Army a favor."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul thanked the pilot again and walked over to an olive drab sedan that was apparently waiting for him.  A young sergeant saluted, her pale blue eyes giving him a sweeping once over.

          "Colonel Ironhorse," she said, checking his name plate.

          He returned the salute and nodded, checking her name tab.  Miller.  He glanced at the Geiger-counter in his other hand.  "Sergeant."

          "Welcome to Seneca Army Depot, Colonel.  I'll be driving you into Rochester."

          "How far is it?" he asked, following her to the rear of the car, and depositing his duffel.

          "About sixty miles, sir," she said, closing the trunk, and stepping around to the passenger side of the car to open the rear door for him.  Ironhorse slid in.

          Once they were on the road, Paul's thoughts scattered, and he had difficulty holding onto any one in particular.  Images from his days at West Point, the Olympics, the summers spent at various army training schools in preparation for Vietnam.  The protesters who had chanted in front of the Point's main gates.  The Holiday football games.  Rachel.  The Christmas of 1968.  The men in ski masks.  Tony.

          "Have you been to New York before, Colonel?" Miller asked.

          He knew she was making small talk, but he couldn't stop the caustic reply as it fell off the tip of his tongue.  "Only once, Sergeant, while I was at West Point."

          "Oh," the young woman said in a subdued tone, but recovered nicely.  "I guess it's changed a lot since then?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The sergeant pulled into the Memorial Hospital parking lot, and stopped near the main entrance.  Getting out, she walked around and opened the door for Ironhorse.

          "We have a room for you at the Holiday Inn, sir," she said, motioning across the street.  "I'm sorry it couldn't be something nicer."

          "That'll do fine."

          She fished a business-sized card out of her shirt pocket.  "You can reach me, or another driver, any time, at this number."

          Ironhorse took the card with a nod.  General Wilson had taken care of everything.

          "Would you like me to wait, sir?"

          "No, Sergeant.  Drop my bag off in my room and enjoy the rest of the day."

          "Thank you, sir," she said, walking back to the driver's side.  "I hope it's nothing serious, sir."

          "A friend," Ironhorse replied.

          There was real sympathy in the blue eyes.  "I'm sorry."

          "Thank you, Sergeant, that'll be all."

          Climbing into the sedan, she pulled away, heading across the street to the hotel.

          Paul glanced up at the hospital's modern facade, hoping he wasn't too late.  Forcing one foot in front of the other, he walked in and asked for directions to I.C.U. The young woman behind the information desk laid a map on the counter and outlined the route with a purple pen.

          "Thanks," he said, taking the sheet and heading for the elevators.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The seventh floor wasn't exactly what he'd expected.  A semi-circular arc of glass cubicles took up most of the space.  Each room had a large window, and many included plants, hanging from the ceiling.  Soft New Age-like music played, mixing with the sounds of birds and gurgling water, reminding the colonel of some of Harrison's 2 a.m. choices.

          "Can I help you?" a young woman in a skirt and tee-shirt asked.

          "I'm looking for Alex Sutton."

          She smiled.  "Alex is in with Tony right now, but if you want to have a seat in the waiting area, I'll tell him you're here."

          "Thank you.  My name's Paul Ironhorse."

          "The area's just around the corner," she directed, pointing.

          Paul watched the woman leave, wondering if she was staff or another visitor, then headed for the waiting room.  He was pleasantly surprised to find what looked like an arboretum with several couches and comfortable chairs scattered with the foliage.  Books and magazines filled several racks sitting in the area, and a table against one wall held a coffee machine, juice dispenser and several pots of hot water for the selection of teas available in a small rack.

          Helping himself to the surprisingly good coffee, Paul carried the cup over to a chair next to one of the large windows and sat down.  Looking out across the hospital grounds, he watched visitors and staff come and go under the broad boughs of maple and elm trees that shaded the green grass.

          "Paul?"

          Ironhorse set the coffee down on a small table next to his chair and stood, shaking hands with Alex.  The sociology professor looked the same as he had the last time Paul had visited in 1986.  Had it really been that long? he wondered.

          Alex Sutton was a distinguished looking man.  Six foot, jogger-trim, with sandy-blond hair now showing strokes of gray at the temples.  His clothes were casual, but fashionable, and his turtle-shell glasses framed compassionate blue eyes.  All in all he looked like an academic.

          "I'm glad you could come," he said, pumping Paul's hand.

          "How's Tony?"

          Alex motioned for Paul to sit back down, and he did, taking up the coffee again.

          Alex pulled another chair over and sat.  "The doctors aren't sure.  Physically he seems to be doing very well, but the coma's the same."

          Paul frowned.  "It hasn't changed at all?"

          Alex shook his head.  "No.  He entered the coma just after they got him here, sank down, and then came back up a little after his family first got here, but he's been the same for almost twenty hours now."

          "How are you doing?" Paul asked, noting the shadows under the man's eyes, and the building hollows of his cheeks.

          Alex shrugged.  "Hanging in there."  He gave Paul a reassuring smile.  "I can't give up hope he'll be okay, you know?"

          Ironhorse nodded.  "Can I see him?"

          Alex stood.  "I already cleared it with the doctor, come on."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul stepped into the smallish cubicle, the door whisking shut behind him.  His first reaction was one of surprise.

          Tony D'Califlurio didn't look like he'd been in a near-fatal car accident.  Two small bruises discolored one cheek, and except for some dressing around his chest, upper leg and head, he looked like he was sleeping.  There was no extensive bruising, no casts, and no scrapes or cuts.  So why wasn't he awake?

          Walking to the single chair that sat next to the bedside, Paul sank down.

          Tony.  Tall, stocky history professor.  Ex-Army sergeant.  The man who had told him the truth about Vietnam when West Point was trying to ignore the issue.  The man who had taught him drinking songs, and where the good R&R spots were, and all the Vietnamese cuss words he needed to impress the locals.  The man who had saved his life…  What should he say?

          Alex had explained on the way to the room that the doctor wanted them to talk to Tony like he was awake, that he might actually be able to hear them.

          "Tony?  Hey, man, it's Paul.  I'd ask how you're doing, but I can see that for myself.  What's the big idea, trying to play water slide with a Honda?  At your age, you should know better."  He stopped, and reached out to rest a hand on Tony's arm, careful to avoid disturbing the IV tubing.  "It's been a long time, hasn't it.  I'm just sorry it took something like this before I could come out to visit.  I've been busy the last few years, but it looks like you and Alex are doing okay.  He's pretty worried, but I'm sure you know that.  I haven't asked him about the dogs.  Still raising huskies?  Remember the way Cody took to me that first time?  That was odd, but I did like that dog.  She was a looker.  I can't believe I haven't made it back out here since '86.  I'm not much of a friend sometimes."

          The words faded, and he squeezed the limp hand.

          "Damn it, Tony, I don't know what to say.  Just get better.  I don't want to lose another friend.  They're in short supply these days.  I wish I could stay, but I'm— I have a mission.  I want to, but, you know…"

          With a final squeeze, he stood and walked out, closing the door behind him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Norton sat at the Cray, matching his skills against the alien war machines that swooped down on the computer-generated city.

          The elevator doors whisked open and Harrison exited.  "So, oh-computer-wizard, what do you have for me?"

          Norton looked up and shook his head.  "Nada."

          "Nothing?"  Harrison folded his arms across his chest.  "You mean to tell me that Norton Drake, king of the computer hackers, failed?"

          "No.  I saw enough to know I didn't want to pursue it."

          "Norton—"  Harrison started in his best wheedling tone.

          "No, Harrison.  And before you get worked up, I _don't_ think this is any of our business."

          "Not true," Blackwood argued.  "As head of this Project it's important that I know what's going on."

          "No, you just want to know, and this time I'm not going to get involved.  If the Colonel wants to tell us, he will.  Like he said, it's a personal matter."

          "Norton's right," Suzanne said, leaning in the doorway to her bio-lab.  "This isn't related to the Project, so it's none of our business unless we're invited.  We overstepped some bounds with Sara Cole, Harrison.  Let's not repeat that here?"

          "He doesn't let _us_ have a personal life," Blackwood argued, feeling more defensive than reasonable.  "Why should this be any different?"

          Suzanne gave him an annoyed scowl and went back to her microscope.

          Harrison turned back to Norton.

          "Don't look at me, Doc, I agree with her."

          "For crying out loud," Blackwood sighed, heading for the stairs.  "He's got you all brainwashed.  It's not like I'm going to blackmail the man.  I just want to know what's going on!"

          Suzanne waited until she heard Harrison's office door shut, then walked out to join Norton.  "What did you find out?"

          The hacker looked up and grinned.  "Not much, really…"

          "But?"

          "It wasn't that hard to track the calls."

          "And?"

          "They were made by an Alex Sutton, a sociology professor from State University New York at Rochester.  He was calling about Anthony D'Califlurio, a history professor at the same university."

          "The one who was in the car accident?"

          Norton nodded.  "Yep.  He's in Memorial Hospital in Rochester.  He's doing so-so.  The actual injuries don't look that bad, on paper, but he dropped into a coma shortly after he was admitted to the hospital, and he's still in the coma, according to the records."

          Suzanne looked confused.  "And he's a friend of Paul's?"

          There was a nod.  "He was in the Army from 1961 to 1968.  In Vietnam in '66 to '68.  Left after Tet and took a discharge out of the Army."

          "Well, Paul didn't meet him there then, he would've been at West Point in 1968."

          "And Anthony D'Califlurio never taught at West Point, or at any other Army school, for that matter."

          "So, where did they meet?" Suzanne asked.

          Drake shrugged.  "I honestly don't know, but…"  He trailed off, his eyes fixing on the stairs.

          Suzanne walked over, looked, then returned to lean against the computer station.  "What?"

          Norton's eyebrows rose and he said softly, "Anthony D'Califlurio is gay."

          "Gay?" she mouthed.

          Norton nodded.  "Alex Sutton is his, and I quote:  'longtime domestic partner.'"  He folded his arms across his chest and shrugged.  "You don't think maybe…?"

          The microbiologist's eyes widened and she shook her head.  "No.  I don't."

          "Me, either, but I'm _not_ passing that along to Harrison.  He'll pester the big guy to death, trying to find out how they met and got to be friends.  And if Paul is, or isn't, and why."

          "You're right.  But I have to admit, I'm curious myself."

          Norton grinned.  "Me, too."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Climbing out of the car, Ironhorse was surprised that only Harrison was waiting for him.  The scientist strode off the front porch, making a beeline for the car.

          Blackwood pulled the door open.  "So, how'd it go?"

          "Fine," was the noncommittal reply as Ironhorse climbed out and walked to the back of the Taurus, fishing his duffel out.

          "And your personal matter?"

          "Fine."

          Blackwood followed the Colonel to the Cottage, stepping around him to open the door.  Ironhorse entered and headed straight for his office, closing the door behind him and cutting off Blackwood's next question.

          Paul stopped, turning to look at the door.  He'd been rude, but he just wasn't up to Blackwood's third degree.  Not right now.  With a shake of his head, he continued through the office and into his private quarters.  Unpacking the duffel, he returned everything to its appropriate place, then sat down on the bed, picked up the phone, and called the hospital.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Suzanne passed the pot roast to Ironhorse, noting that he still wasn't eating more than a bite here and there.  Debi's ongoing monologue about her homework, horse, and woefully-lacking music and tee-shirt selection seemed to hold his attention, and she shot a threatening glare across the table when Harrison opened his mouth to interrupt.

          Blackwood settled back against his chair and frowned.

          "Colonel?" the girl finally asked.

          "Yes, Debi?"

          "Are you sad?"

          The black eyebrows rose, and the adults studied their plates.  "Why do you ask that?"

          "You don't eat.  You don't go riding with me any more.  You spend all your time in your office.  And you look sad."

          A tired smile lifted the corners of Ironhorse's mouth.  "Yes, Debi.  I'm sad.  A friend of mine was hurt, and he's in the hospital."

          "Is he a soldier?" she asked.

          "Debi," Suzanne interrupted, "It's none of your business."

          The girl scowled, but apologized.  "Sorry.  I guess it's need-to-know, huh?"

          "That's okay, Deb," Paul said kindly.  "It's not really need to know."  The black eyes studied the food on his plate before he spoke.  Maybe it was time he let them in on a few of the facts – if they didn't know already.  "He's not a soldier anymore.  He used to be, but he's a history professor now."

          With a triumphant look at her mother, she ventured, "Will he be okay?"

          "I hope so, Debi," Ironhorse said softly.

          "And that's enough questions, young lady," Suzanne told her daughter, but she looked at Harrison.  The cracks had started.  When he was ready, Ironhorse would talk.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Sitting on the hearth, Ironhorse used the brass poker to move the nearly consumed logs into place before adding another.  The fresh wood snapped and popped, hungry flames curling the last few leaves into black ash.

          He heard Blackwood enter and sit down.

          "Paul?"

          "Yes."

          "Will your friend really be okay?"

          The voice was sincere, curiosity set aside for compassion.  He smiled thinly and shrugged.  "I don't know.  They've treated his injuries and he seems to be healing, but he's still in a coma."

          There was a soft sigh.  "I am sorry.  And I'm sorry if you feel like I've been prying.  It's just that, well, it's who I am.  I can't seem to stop myself.  But it's with the best intentions."

          "I know."

          "So, now that you know that I really don't want to pry, I'm curious, why didn't you stay?"

          "Because I'm a soldier, Harrison.  This is my job, not sitting on my butt in some waiting room."

          "It's quiet, we haven't—"

          "For how long?"

          Harrison stopped.  Ironhorse sounded angry and he didn't want to argue with the soldier.  "Granted, but you're worried.  It's affecting your appetite, your concentration.  Don't you think—"

          "There isn't a choice here, Blackwood.  I have a job to do. So let me do it.  If there's a change in his condition, I'll be called."

          Harrison pushed himself up, silently damning the regulations that turned men into robots.  "All right, but if he really is your friend, then I can't understand why you don't want to be there."

          "I never said I didn't want to be there," was the soft reply, "just that my priority has to be the mission."

          "People are important."

          "I realize that."

          "But you'd turn your back on a friend when—"

          "When I have to."

          "What if he dies?"

          Ironhorse's jaws tightened.

          Harrison shook his head.  "I'm sorry, that wasn't fair.  You do what you have to, Colonel.  But I think you belong with your friend, at least until the crisis is over." He walked out, leaving Paul to his fire.

          Ironhorse stared into the leaping orange-red flames, wondering what he should do.  Tony hadn't asked any questions the night he'd stopped to help him…  Tony never hesitated, never questioned what he was doing…  He'd never left Paul alone that entire week.

          It was so easy to see the man's casual smile.  The hands that punctuated his words with expansive gestures, the open and free affection he shared with everyone.

          Tony was a good man.  A good friend.  It wasn't fair, but Paul had learned many years ago that very little in life was.  Of course he wanted to be there.  Of course he wanted to read to Tony, talk to him, hold his hand, scold him for not waking up.  He wanted to give Tony a hug, tell him how much his friendship meant, how much he'd taught him, how much of a difference he'd made.

          Tony.  Friend, teacher, older brother… savior… special.  One of a select few in Paul Ironhorse's life: a truly close friend.  And what was Paul doing?  He was hiding, afraid someone would look too close and see the truth, the whole ugly, brutal truth.

          No, that wasn't it.  He wasn't hiding from that.  He was a soldier.  He couldn't just abandon the mission, especially when it was one as important as this one.  It went against everything he was.  Hell, Tony would kick his ass if he did.

          His personal life was another casualty of war.  He knew that would be the case when he'd picked Special Forces.

          The eyes dropped closed and he felt the twin tears spill over his cheeks and fall.  Besides, how do you say goodbye to someone who's seen your soul?

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Harrison, what're you doing?" Norton asked as he rolled up to his already occupied workstation.

          Blackwood looked up, a satisfied expression on his face.  "Looking for a few answers of my own."

          The hacker moved closer.  "Harrison—"

          "Norton, I need to know.  Paul's been moping around ever since he got back. If we do happen to get alien activity, do you think it's going to be safe for him to be out there when he's like this?"

          "Yes," Norton countered.  "He won't let this affect his job in the field."

          "I disagree.  So, either you tell me what you found out about Anthony D'Califlurio, or I go ask Ironhorse."

          "Harrison—"

          Blackwood stood.  "Fine.  I'll do it myself."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The knock was purposeful, and Ironhorse glanced up from the duty roster he was finalizing.  "Come," he called, knowing Blackwood had reached the end of his patience.

          Harrison stepped in, not bothering to pull the door closed behind him.  Walking over to the desk, he stood, arms folded across his chest, staring down at Ironhorse.

          "Yes, Doctor?"

          "Who is Anthony D'Califlurio?"

          "A friend."  The colonel's eyes returned to the roster.

          Harrison sat down.  "Paul—"

          The black eyes snapped up, stalling Blackwood's diatribe.  "He's a friend.  He's in the hospital, and that's all I want to say about it."

          "He has to be more than that.  You flew—"

          "What he is, or isn't, is none of your business, Blackwood.  Now, if you don't mind, I have work I need to do."

          "That's exactly my point," Harrison argued.  "This is affecting—"

          "What the hell are you implying, Doctor?"

          "Excuse me," Suzanne said, stepping into the room.  "But I think this is getting out of hand."

          The black eyes narrowed.  "You agree with him?"

          "I didn't say that," McCullough responded, her hands coming up in a gesture of reconciliation.  "I said this is getting out of hand."  She turned to Blackwood, who plopped into the chair.  "Harrison, you're being a pain in the ass."  She looked back at Paul.  "And so are you."

          Both men leaned back, arms folding defensively across their chests.  _Like a pair of stubborn bookends_ , she thought.  "Here's how I see it," she explained, ignoring the developing pouts.  "Paul, you have a friend who's hurt, but you don't want to leave the Project to be there while they wait and see how he's going to be. Harrison, you think Paul should go.  I have a compromise."

          "What?" Blackwood asked.

          "Why don't we all just take a few days off?  We'll go to New York as a group. Debi and I can go visit Uncle Hank and Aunt Helen—"

          "You don't have to do that, Suzanne."

          She leveled Ironhorse with her best 'I'm in charge here' look that she'd learned from him.  "But I _want_ to, Colonel.  You can go to the hospital, Harrison and Norton can go sightseeing, or whatever."

          "That sounds reasonable," Blackwood ventured softly.

          Ironhorse's jaw worked tensely, but he didn't speak.  He wanted to go back.  He wanted to be there when Tony woke up.  But he couldn't let his personal feeling get in the way of the mission.  He couldn't.  If he did…

          "Paul, let's be realistic.  We could all use the time off.  It's been quiet, and I think we'd be smart to take advantage of the lull while we can.  If it so happens that it corresponds to your friend's recovery, I call it fortuitous."

          He looked up, meeting Suzanne's eyes.  She had a point.  It wouldn't be the first time they'd used a lag in activity for some sanity maintenance.  And, damn it, it owed it to Tony.  He nodded his agreement.

          She smiled.  "Good.  I'll call Uncle Hank and warn him to expect us."

          Harrison watched her go, then turned back to the colonel.  "Paul, I just don't want you to do something you'll regret later."

          "I realize that, Doctor, but you don't understand the larger picture," he replied calmly.  "I'm not like you, or Norton, or Suzanne.  I'm a soldier.  We have different rules."

          Blackwood scowled.  "Then the rules are wrong.  You don't turn your back on a friend."

          Ironhorse shook his head.  It was impossible.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse sat back and watched the clouds passing by outside his window.  It was slower, but with the others along he was forced to take a commercial flight.  He didn't think the Air Force would be willing to loan them a squadron of stealth bombers to escort him across country, especially if they were taxiing civilians.  The image inspired a slight grin.  And what would you tip them?

          "What?" Norton asked.

          Ironhorse looked over at the hacker seated next to him.  "Nothing.  I was just thinking about the Air Farse."

          Drake grinned.  "I won't pursue it."

          "I appreciate that, Mr. Drake."

          "Colonel, are you going to Virginia with us?" Debi asked from across the first-class cabin aisle.

          "Probably not," he said, in part wishing he could.  It sounded so… normal.

          "Oh," was the clearly disappointed reply.

          "I don't think you'll have time to notice," Suzanne told her daughter.  "Donna and Cindy are meeting us there."

          The blue eyes widened.  "Really?"

          Suzanne nodded.  It had been several years since she or Debi had seen their cousins, and she was looking forward to it, too.  "Aunt Helen's planning a shopping trip for the four of us."

          "Cool!  Can I get a leather jacket?  Pleeee-ze?"

          The three men smiled.

          "We'll see," Suzanne compromised.

          "Maybe yes, or maybe no?"

          "Maybe, as it depends on what we can find on sale."

          Debi leaned over and gave her mother a hug.  "You're the greatest."

          "As long as it doesn't look like a biker should own it."

          "But that's the style."

          "We'll talk about it when we get there."

          Ironhorse leaned back in his seat.  There was a certain comfort, having the civilians along this time.  As much as he'd like to deny it, they had become a family, and it made the idea of facing the hospital again easier.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "I didn't expect to see you back so soon, sir," Sergeant Miller said as she helped load the Project members' luggage into a waiting handi-access van.  Behind her several of the Omega Squad climbed into a second van.  "Not bad news, I hope?"

          "I hope not, too, Sergeant," Ironhorse answered, handing over the last bag.

          "We'll be at the hospital in twenty minutes.  We've booked rooms at the Holiday Inn for all of you.  Is there anywhere else I need to stop?"

          "The hospital will be fine, Sergeant.  Dr. McCullough, her daughter and a two man escort will need to get to the airport tomorrow morning."

          "Yes, sir.  I have them scheduled for an 0800 pick up."

          Ironhorse paused at the rear of the van.  Miller's eyebrows rose slightly.  "Something wrong, sir?"

          Paul shook his head.  "No, Sergeant.  I just wanted to thank you for making this all run smoothly."

          "Just doing my job, sir," she said, a slight blush coloring her cheeks.

          "I know, Sergeant."  With that, Ironhorse rounded the side and climbed in to join the other Project members.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Suzanne knocked lightly on the hotel door.  A moment later it clicked open and Norton rolled out into the hallway to join her.

          "The Doc's taking a nap," he said.  "Something up?"

          "No," she replied.  "I just wanted to talk to you.  Debi's in the pool, want to check out the food?"

          "Sounds good to me.  I could use some coffee.  Airline brew is _not_ my idea of coffee."

          Suzanne grinned.  "Mine, either."

          Together they headed for the cafe, finding a seat and ordering coffee and a tray of chicken strips to split.

          "So, what's on your mind, Suzanne?"

          "Paul," she said bluntly.  "I want you to keep an eye on him while Debi and I are gone.  He's hurting a lot more than he's letting on, and I don't think Harrison's helping."

          "He's trying."

          "I know, but Paul's… different.  He's doesn't come at things like Harrison does, and times like this all they do is clash.  I don't think Paul needs that right now."

          "I sure would like to know who this guy is."

          "Me, too, but whoever he is, he means a lot to Paul, and I don't want Harrison making this any harder than it already is.  So, if you could run interference?"

          "I'll try."

          Suzanne paused as the food and coffee arrived.  After a bite and several sips of coffee she resumed.  "You know, it wasn't until this that I realized how much we don't know about Paul.  Know what I mean?"

          Norton nodded.  "I was thinkin' that, too.  He's a private kind of guy."

          "Living with a human microscope."

          "Tell me about it.  I think Harrison pried most all my secrets out of me in the first year I was working for him.  He's insidious."

          "He's curious," Suzanne replied in her best Blackwood voice.

          "He's met his match."

          "Sometimes I think it would help Paul if he'd open up and talk."

          "Maybe he will," Norton said, his eyebrows rising and falling.  "But if he does, do you think any of us will know what to say?"

          She shrugged slightly.  "I don't know, but we can tell him we care."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Paul?"

          Ironhorse turned.

          Alex smiled.  "I didn't expect you back so soon."

          "Neither did I," he admitted.  "Any improvement?"

          Alex frowned.  "Not really.  He's responding better to physical stimuli, but he's not any closer to waking up, according to the specialist."  The man looked up, his blue eyes almost desperate.  "I'm afraid he's going to heal fine, but never wake up."

          Ironhorse reached out and squeezed Alex's shoulder.  "Don't think like that.  Keep your thoughts positive."

          Alex tried to smile.  "You sound like Tony."

          "Can I see him?"

          "Sure, I should get something to eat.  His mom's in with him, but she should probably eat, too."

          The two men walked back to the small room, Paul following Alex in.  Mrs. D'Califlurio sat in the chair next to her son's bed, stroking his arm and talking softly. She looked around as they entered, her eyes widening when she saw Paul.

          Standing, she walked over and gave the colonel a heartfelt hug.  "Oh, Paul, it's so good to see you."

          "You, too, Nana," he whispered, returning the hug.  She was still the same tiny woman he remembered.  It was impossible to imagine her the mother of twelve.  Her olive completion was still vibrant, even if her hair was almost completely gray.

          "I'm sorry I missed you when you were here earlier."

          "I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer."

          "Nana, I thought we could go get something to eat and let Paul visit for a while."

          She nodded.  "I'm sure Tony will like that."

          "Take your time," the colonel said.

          When they were gone, he walked over and sat down.  Resting a hand on Tony's arm he said softly, but firmly, "This isn't the way I like to spend my R&R, so why don't you wake up so I can go kick your butt on the golf course."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse looked up from his magazine, surprised to find Harrison and Norton in the waiting room.

          "Something up?" he asked, half out of his seat.

          "Relax, Big Guy," Norton said.  "Nothing's up."

          "We just thought we'd come by and check in on you," Blackwood explained.  "Rochester's a nice town, but it's not that big."

          The colonel frowned.  "I'm fine."

          "Suzanne called.  She and Debi made it to DC okay.  She's already plotting how many new suitcases she'll need to buy to get the shopping spoils back home," Norton explained.

          "I'll have to schedule room on a transport," Ironhorse muttered under his breath.

          The two men chuckled.  "We might need it," Harrison admitted.  "I heard Debi in the background talking about a carousel horse."

          The colonel's eyes widened.

          "Any change?" Blackwood asked.

          Ironhorse shook his head.

          "Paul?"

          Ironhorse stood, dropping the magazine into the chair and walking over to join Alex and a doctor.  "What's wrong?"

          "Nothing," the doctor said reassuringly.  "There's been a slight change in Mr. D'Califlurio's brain activity, but it's too soon to tell what it means."  He turned to Alex.  "I'll check back on him in an hour."

          They watched the physician leave, then Ironhorse cleared his throat.  "Alex Sutton, this is Harrison Blackwood and Norton Drake."

          Blackwood stuck out his hand.  "Glad to meet you.  Call me Harrison."

          "Harrison," Alex replied, shaking his hand, then Norton's.

          "Glad to meet you."

          "We're very sorry about all this," Harrison said.

          "Thank you.  I'm hoping he'll just wake up and it'll all be over.  I can't imagine living without him."

          "I think I'm going to go get some air," Ironhorse said softly, then headed for the elevator.

          The threesome watched him go, Blackwood finally taking a step to follow.  "Doc?" Norton said, reaching out to stop him.

          "He's hurting, Norton."

          "I know, but—"

          "But I haven't been handling this very well," Harrison finished, frowning.  He looked down at the hacker, his blue eyes imploring.  "Go see if he's okay, okay?"

          "No problem."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Excuse me, did you see a guy in jeans and a black and gray flannel shirt just leave?" Norton asked the older lady on duty at the information counter.

          "Yes, just a moment ago."

          Norton started out the front doors.  "Sir," she called after him.  "He left that way."  She pointed in the opposite direction.  "Out toward the grounds."

          Drake reversed directions, smiling his thanks at the woman as he pushed past.  Outside he stayed on the sidewalks that crisscrossed under the large maple and elm trees.  It didn't take him long to find the colonel seated on one of the many park benches nestled under the trees.

          With a deep breath and a quick prayer that the grass wasn't too thick and spongy to push through, Norton bounced off the concrete and shoved his way over to join the man.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Lost in his own thoughts, Ironhorse didn't notice the visitor until Drake was almost on top of him.  "Something wrong?" he asked, springing up.

          Norton waved him back down.  "Naw, Harrison was just worried and asked me to go check on you."

          "I don't need a babysitter, Mr. Drake," was the half-growled reply.

          "I know that."  He glanced around.  "Beautiful out here, isn't it?"

          Ironhorse paused, then shook his head.  "I'm sorry, Norton, that wasn't fair."

          "Sure it was."  Norton grinned and maneuvered closer, then shifted himself onto the bench.  "But I don't mind.  Besides, I thought it'd be better if _I_ came looking for you."

          A soft snort and half-smile.  "You're probably right.  Blackwood's grating on me right now, but it's not his fault."

          "Maybe not, but it's his nature."

          The pair laughed, Paul sobering quickly.  He sighed.  "I'm just damned sick and tired of losing my friends, Norton."

          "Seems like he's more than just a friend, Paul," Norton ventured, hoping he wasn't signing his own death warrant.

          Ironhorse stared off into the trees, watching the sunlight play off the dancing foliage.  "He is."  He looked back to Norton.  "I guess he's more like a big brother."

          Norton smiled.  "Don't take this wrong, but it's hard to imagine you with a big brother."

          A lopsided grin cut through the serious expression.  "Then I guess I'm doing my job right."

          "You don't have to hide from me, Colonel.  I'm harmless."

          "As a barracuda."

          They chuckled, then fell silent for a moment before Norton tried another question.  "How'd you two meet?"

          A flash of pain tightened Ironhorse's face, a steel wall falling into place behind the black eyes.  He knew.  He wasn't sure how he knew, but he did.  Norton had been digging around in the computer databases again.

          "Sorry I asked," Norton said.  "Harrison asked me to do some digging.  I did, to get him off my back, but I couldn't find an obvious connection and I quit."  He gave the colonel an apologetic shrug.  "It felt wrong.  I told him it was none of our business."

          The wall cracked.  "It was an accident, really.  He…"  Paul's gaze dropped.  "He saved my life."

          "Then I guess we owe him," Norton said softly.

          They fell silent again, Norton watching the colonel from the corner of his eye. It was obvious the man was struggling with his own demons.

          The soldier's quiet voice broke the silence.  "I'd been driving all night.  It was early in the morning – two, maybe three.  I hit a patch of black ice and spun off the road, into a ditch.  I couldn't get the car out, so I just sat there.  It was cold, damned cold, but I couldn't get it together.  Tony was driving home.  He saw the car and stopped, pulled me out and took me to his place."

          "You must've been pretty banged up," Norton said, hoping Ironhorse would continue, and at the same time afraid he would.  There was more to the soldier than what showed, and Drake wasn't at all sure he was ready to explore those depths.

          "But not from the accident.  That was nothing.  If I'd been okay, but I was really fucked up."

          "Drunk?"

          A smile.  "No."

          The obsidian gaze flickered up, meeting Norton's.  He watched the mental evaluation going on as Ironhorse sized him up.  "You don't have to tell me anything, Paul."  The gaze dropped away, and Norton silently cursed himself for speaking too soon.

          The black eyes flickered back up.  "It was Christmas break.  1968.  I was going to go home that year, but my mom called on the nineteenth.  My older sister, her husband, and their baby daughter had been killed.  Fire.  Investigators thought it was a faulty light on the Christmas tree."

          "Jesus," Norton breathed.

          "Instead of going back, I sent mom the money from the tickets to help with the funeral expenses.  I was feeling pretty bad."

          "Yeah, I'll bet."

          "A few of my buddies thought they'd try to cheer me up.  We drove into the city to catch a football game.  They met these girls, starting flirting.  I just wasn't in the mood, and I was raining all over their parade.  I told them I was going to go back to the Point.  The girls promised they'd give them a ride back.  It was Friday, and we didn't have to be back until Monday – didn't really have to be there at all."

          "What'd you do?" Norton asked when Paul fell silent.

          "I left before the game was over.  Went back to the car, but…"

          The flash of fear and agony on the Ironhorse's face told Norton he probably wasn't going to like what was coming.  "You sure you want to talk about this?"

          Ironhorse looked away.  "Tony's the only one who knows what happened."

          "He'll be okay, Paul.  The doctor said his condition's changing.  He—"

          "I never made it back to the car.  Not then, anyway."

          He needed to talk.  Whatever it was, it was a story that needed to be shared to keep the demons at bay.  Tony might die.  Paul needed to transfer the burden to someone else.  Norton swallowed hard and asked, "What happened?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          A roar from the crowd inside the stadium enveloped the parking lot as cadet Paul Ironhorse exited.  The sound made his heart beat faster.  Two months earlier he had heard the same sound as thousands of spectators stood to cheer him and the other decathlon athletes as they crossed the finish line for their final event.  He had earned himself a bronze medal and a rush that would not soon fade.

          Taking a deep breath, he headed into the small sea of parked vehicles, hoping he could find the sedan that had carried he and the three other cadets to the game.  Jamming his hands into his pockets, Paul maneuvered through the rows of cars, trying hard not to think about the reason they had come in the first place.

          Rachel.  Rachel was dead.  It was almost impossible to believe, but he had heard the news from his mother.  Rachel, his older sister and best friend.  Dead.  Rachel.  Her husband.  Her baby.  It wasn't fair!

          He stopped, his gaze sweeping over the lines of cars, trying to make out the colors through the building tears.  Where the hell was that sedan?  There, a row over.

          He headed into the maze, brushing past someone before he realized that the man was wearing a ski mask.  He stopped and turned, realizing too late that he was surrounded.

          Five, all dressed in dark clothes and masks.  Paul bolted, two of the men chasing him.  He scrambled over the hood of one car, then a second, reversing direction and leaping off the trunk.  A man tackled him, bouncing him into the pavement and knocking the wind out of him.

          The cold barrel of a revolver pressed along Paul's neck.  "Fight and you'll die, boy," a man growled.  "Understand?"

          Paul nodded.  If they wanted the few dollars he was carrying, they could have them.

          "Good.  Real good.  Keep your mouth shut and do what you're told, you might just live through this afternoon."

          Two pairs of hands pulled Paul to his feet and led him through the cars, past the sedan and to an unassuming VW van.  Black eyes scanned the mass of cars, but there was no one else visible in the lot.  A second roar from the crowd spilled out of the stadium, and he felt the sweat roll down his spine.  He was in trouble.

          One of the men unlocked the van and slid the door open.  He jumped in, followed by two others.  The man with the gun motioned for Paul to follow.  He briefly contemplated running, but the weapons stopped him.

          He climbed in, watching as one of the men drew a black curtain across the open space behind the driver's and passenger's seats, cutting off any view into the back of the van from the parking lot.  Black curtains hung over the windows, and the interior was modified to allow the men to stand up easily.

          One of the men grabbed him and forced him to the carpeted floor as the last two entered and drew the door shut, locking it.  Paul noticed that the sides of the vehicle were covered with carpeting as well, muffling the sounds.

          One of the men slapped the back of his head, and Paul ducked forward, someone else grabbing his arms and pinning them behind his back.  With his face pressed into the ugly gray carpet, he noted the rust-colored stains scattered over the material before a thick strip of black material was slipped over his eyes and tied painfully in place.

          "Don't touch that, boy, or you'll have to die."

          A second piece of cloth was forced into his mouth, biting into the corners and choking off his air.

          The barrel of a gun poked against his ear, and Paul remained motionless on his hands and knees, listening to the others moving around the van.  He could hear the sounds of clothing being removed, and sweat beaded across his forehead, soaking into the blindfold.

          There was nowhere to run.  Nothing he could do.  There were five of them, and at least three of them had guns.  He should _do_ something, but what?  He didn't want to die, and trying to attack or run would be suicide.

          "Listen, and listen careful, boy.  You do exactly what we tell you, when we tell you, and you'll live.  Fight and we'll shoot you.  Understand?"

          Paul nodded sharply, anger building.  He wanted to reach up, jerk the blindfold off, and beat the men to a bloody pulp, but he couldn't. There were too many of them, too many guns, and not enough room.  He was trapped.

          "Good.  First thing, take off your clothes."

          Paul's teeth ground against the rough cloth, and he refused to move.  Something cold and hard slammed into his side, knocking him over.  The butt end of a revolver pressed into the back of his neck.

          "Do it," the voice hissed.  "Or you'll wish you had."

          Hands jerked him up so he was kneeling on the carpet.  With shaking fingers Paul reached up and unbuttoned his jacket, then pulled it off.  The thick flannel shirt followed, then shoes, socks, and pants.  Clad only in underwear and a T-shirt he stopped.

          "What're you waiting for?  Take them off," the voice said, sounding amused.

          "He's a red boy," another commented as Paul slipped the T-shirt over his head, the cold stab of a gun in his ribs making him careful not to dislodge the blindfold as well.

          Only the briefs remained and he felt the first sting of trapped tears as he reached down and pulled the elastic over his hips.  He stood, pulling his last piece of clothing off.  A chorus of snickers surrounded him and Paul silently cursed the blush that rushed over his naked body.

          "Isn't that pretty."

          "Yeah."

          "Sweet young thing."

          "Sweet my ass.  He's gonna be a soldier boy," another added sarcastically.

          "Is that right?" the voice who had directed him to take his clothes off asked.

          Paul refused to answer.  Someone pulled something down, the heavy object connecting with a thud on the carpet.  Paul was shoved around, his lower abdomen connecting with a carpet-covered four by four.  Forced to lean over the post, his wrists and ankles were cinched tightly into leather bands.  Only the gun barrel pressing painfully behind his ear stopped him from fighting.

          "That's a sweet picture," the voice chuckled.  "Virgin territory, if I'm any judge."

          Paul chewed the gag angrily, his mind racing.  He knew what they intended to do, but he couldn't come up with a reason to explain it.  What had he done?  Didn't they know?  He was a cadet.  He'd won a medal at the Olympics.  He wasn't some piece of meat.  He was man, a soldier, an athlete.

          Something soft rubbed against his exposed cheek and Paul jerked his head away, realizing it was the tip of a penis.  Others touched his body, bouncing off his sides, arms, legs.  He growled, low in his throat and struggled against the restraints.  The men snickered.

          Someone reached out and pulled painfully on his nipples, and Paul ground his teeth into the foul-tasting cloth, refusing to moan.  Fingers wrapped into his short hair, jerking his head back.

          "Looks like we have a fighter," the voice said, a finger running lightly along the crack of Paul's butt.

          "Best kind," someone else replied.

          "Yeah, makes it tighter."

          Calloused hands grabbed Paul's testicles and squeezed, this time forcing the moan they wanted.  The men laughed.

          "Twist 'em off.  He's not gonna need 'em any more."

          A fingertip snapped against the sensitive head of Paul's penis and he jumped, fighting harder.  A gun barrel dug in under his jaw.

          "Hold still, boy, or you'll find out what pain really is."

          "Where's that lube?"

          There was movement, then a sharp burning pain exploded as a finger plunged into Paul's rectum.

          "Oh yeah, just like a glove," the voice said, forcing a second finger in.

          Paul choked behind the gag as the fingers worked, stretching him.  Someone slapped his face.  Events blurred.  Hands touched him, squeezing, pulling, slapping, hurting.  Fingers and cocks filled his ass, pounding and twisting enough to force screams out from behind the gag.  Paul could feel the blood and semen running down the backs of his legs, felt the fingers dipping into it and painting obscenities on his back and chest.

          A gun barrel pressed against his rectum, another against his temple.  They took the gag off and forced him to open his mouth.  It took all his will to keep from snapping his jaws shut, severing the cocks that violated his throat.  That done, the gag was returned and they started on his ass again.

          Consciousness became a tenuous thing.  The world spun and slipped away.  Feeling became blurred and fuzzy.  Paul was vaguely aware of what the men were doing to him, but he was detached.  His thoughts screamed for an explanation, damning himself for getting into the situation, and damning the men for not giving him a chance to fight back.  Maybe he should have fought.  Maybe it would have been better to die.

          A hard cock pressed into his ass, the man shoving twice before sinking all the way in and coming.  There was a satisfied sigh.

          Movement stilled in the van, Paul going limp over the sawhorse, his knees refusing to hold him any longer.  Slowly the men stirred, pulling on their clothes, reaching out occasionally to poke a finger into his ass or yank painfully on Paul's flaccid cock.

          When they were done someone released his wrists and ankles, now raw and slick with blood.

          He was pushed off the support, collapsing into a heap on the carpet.  The blood-stained carpet, he now knew.  A foot roughly prodded his shoulder.

          "Get up."

          Paul stayed where he was.  Hands grabbed him, hauling him to his feet, underwear shoved into his hands.

          "Get dressed."

          Paul stepped unsteadily into the briefs, nearly vomiting when he bent over.  The T-shirt came next, followed by pants, shirt and shoes.  No one bothered to locate his socks.  His jacket was pressed into his mid-section.  Someone cut the gag free and he felt it land on his shoe.  The blindfold was pulled off, and he squinted into the dim light of the van's interior.  The ski masks were back in place, but he could see the men's smiles.

          "Get out," the voice growled, waving a gun toward the exit.

          Another of the men unlocked the door and pulled it open far enough for Paul to squeeze out.

          "Thanks for the tail, man," another called as the door was shut again.

          Paul stood in the parking lot, his body trembling.  The van's motor turned over and it pulled away, disappearing.

          Staggering to the nearest car, Paul sank to his knees and vomited.  Clutching his sides, dry heaves kept him on the ground long after his stomach was empty.  Another roar from the crowd sparked him into action, and Paul climbed painfully to his feet.

          He staggered to the car.  Fumbling into his pant pocket for the keys, he could feel the blood running down the back of his legs and soaking into his jeans.  Unlocking the car door, he tossed the jacket down on the seat and climbed in, half-screaming in pain when he sat down.  His teeth chattered as he turned the motor over and put the car in gear.  He ground his jaws together and put it in reverse, then pulled out of the spot.

          Then he drove.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Jesus," Norton breathed.  "You didn't see a doctor?"

          Ironhorse shook his head.  "I wasn't thinking.  I just drove until I'd damned near run out of gas.  I stopped, filled the tank and kept going.  It must've been close to midnight before I finally turned around and headed back."

          "Where were you going?"

          Ironhorse shrugged.  "I don't know.  Anywhere, nowhere.  That's when I hit the ice.  After Tony found me and got me back to his place, he called a doctor who came to the house, cleaned me up, stitched me up, gave me prescriptions for antibiotics and painkillers."

          "What'd they say at the Point?"

          "They never knew.  Tony made me stay there for the rest of the Christmas break.  I wasn't supposed to be at the Point anyway.  The doctor checked on me every other day and the bruises were gone by the time the spring term started."

          Norton looked off into the trees.  "That's more than a friend."

          "Yeah," was the soft reply.  "I don't think I would've made it if he hadn't been there."  There was a long pause.  "Tony's gay.  He'd had his own run in with a guy… We talked.  I went back, went to 'Nam, but I don't think I really put that behind me until I was in that POW camp…"  He trailed off, shaking his head sadly.  "That's where I learned what real brutality is.  It's all about power.  What you can do to another human being."

          "He'll make it," Norton said, the soft conviction in his voice making Paul feel stronger.

          Ironhorse gave the hacker a sad smile.  "I hope so."

          Norton reached out, letting his arm slide behind Ironhorse, then giving the colonel's shoulder a squeeze.  Paul leaned over, wrapping Drake in a brief hug before pulling back.

          "I think it's time we got back, before Harrison sends out a search party."

          Norton nodded, letting Ironhorse help him into Gertrude.  He reached up and caught the colonel's arm.  "Paul, I don't know what to say…  Thank you, for trusting me."

          Ironhorse nodded.

          "I just want you to know, I won't say anything."

          "I know, Norton."  The soldier stepped behind Norton to help push.  "I pick good friends."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Suzanne and Debi swept into the waiting room, the girl sobering when she saw the colonel and Norton sitting near the window.  The two men looked up, smiling in greeting.

          "Hi," Debi said.  "Is your friend better?"

          Ironhorse nodded.  "The doctor said he's doing better."

          "Is he awake?" Suzanne asked.

          "Not yet," the colonel replied.  "But they're more optimistic.  How was the visit?"

          Debi dropped onto the couch next to Ironhorse.  "Aunt Helen found this old carousel horse," she explained.  "She fixed it up and painted it, and gave it to me.  It's so cool.  And we found lots of stuff shopping."

          The colonel grinned.  He'd definitely need that transport plane.

          "Where's Harrison?" Suzanne asked as she sank down into one of the padded chairs with a grateful sigh.  The two-day shopping trip had clearly been an exhausting one.

          "Having lunch with Mrs. D'Califlurio," Paul told her.

          "And you?"

          "I'm okay," Ironhorse replied, his gaze slipping toward Norton.  "You've all been taking very good care of me."

          "You're back!"

          Suzanne smiled up at Harrison and Mrs. D'Califlurio as they entered the waiting room.  "Yep.  I thought we'd better go, or we'd have cleaned out the stores."

          "Nana," Harrison said.  "This is Suzanne McCullough and her daughter, Debi."

          "Very pleased to meet you," the older woman said, pressing her hand into Suzanne's and squeezing.  "Harrison has told me all about you."

          "Nana, Paul!"

          The assembled group turned toward the corner.

          Alex stalked happily into the room, his smile telegraphing his announcement. "He's awake!"

          "Yes!" Norton said, reaching out to clap Ironhorse's shoulder.

          The black eyes flickered upward.  "Thank you, Grandfather," Paul whispered.

          Debi wrapped him in a tight hug.

          "The doctor's with him now, but all the machines say that his brain functions are close to normal.  Now we're going to have to keep him awake for eight hours while they run tests and whatever else they need to do."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul paced in the waiting room while the rest of the Project members and Debi engaged themselves in their individual forms of entertainment.  Twenty-four hours had passed since Tony had regained consciousness.  He'd stayed awake for the eight-hour long tests, then slept, waking that morning to complain he was hungry.

          It was over.  The doctors were at a loss to explain the cause of the coma, but everything pointed to the fact that Tony was out of danger and well on the road to a full recovery.

          "He's all yours, Paul," Alex said, stepping in to join them.

          Without a word Paul was gone, heading for the room.  He paused outside the closed door.  It had been so close – another friend almost gone – sometimes it would be easier if there were no friends, but that was impossible.  And even if it was, he knew he couldn't live that way.

          Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped in.  Tony was in bed, the head raised so he was nearly sitting up.  His mother fussed over his lunch tray.  The bandage around his head was gone, the sliver-streaked black hair uncombed.  The brown eyes twinkled when he saw Paul.

          A smile consumed Ironhorse's face.  "It's good to see you, and it's about time you got your sorry butt out of bed."

          "Amen," his mother said softly, prompting laughter from the two men and the observers who crowded the open doorway to the room.

          Without hesitation Paul crossed the room to the bed and folded Tony into a tight hug, holding him long enough to bring tears to Norton and Suzannes' eyes.  When he finally stepped away, they watched Ironhorse run his fingers over his own eyes.

          "Kick my butt in golf, huh?" Tony asked.

          Ironhorse's mouth slipped open.

          "I don't think so, Paul.  I've had a lot more practice lately."  He grinned.  "Damn, it's good to see you, too.  How the hell are you?"

          "Anthony Christopher," his mother scolded.

          Paul grinned back.  "I've been good – busy, but good."

          Tony's gaze slipped past Ironhorse to Alex and the others.  "I think you need to make a few introductions, Paul.  You didn't tell me you had a new family."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "This is what I call a vacation," Norton said, packing his suitcase.

          "We all needed it," Harrison concurred, hefting his duffel and heading for the door.  Once Tony was awake, they had been able to spend a few days relaxing and doing some sight-seeing in the New York.  Of course, having a Special Forces Lieutenant Colonel who could pilot a helicopter made travel a lot quicker.

          Drake followed, his small suitcase balanced on his lap, meeting Suzanne and Debi in the hall where they guarded a luggage cart full of new suitcases and one huge box.

          "You're one serious shopper," Harrison commented.

          "Don't look at me," Suzanne countered.  "It's my daughter who hasn't learned the meaning of debt."

          Debi rolled her eyes.  "We have a budget," she said.  "A big one."

          "But not for personal pleasures, young lady," Ironhorse said, stepping out from his own room to join them.  "I just got off the phone with Tony.  The doctors are releasing him day after tomorrow."

          "I'm glad," Suzanne said, giving him a quick hug.  "And I'm ready to go home, if not ready to get back to work."

          "Amen to that," Norton agreed.

          "Me, too," Paul said quietly, meeting Norton's, then Blackwood's eyes.

          "I wish we could go back to West Point again," Debi said.

          "Maybe the next time we come out for a visit," the colonel told her.

          "We can come back?" she asked, blue eyes lighting up.  "Cool.  I like Tony and Alex."

          "Me, too," Blackwood said.  "But, Paul, I've been meaning to ask, are they related?  They certainly don't look like it."

          The assembled group grinned.

          "What?" Harrison said.  "Mrs. D'Califlurio called Alex her son."

          "Of course she did," Paul said, sliding his duffel on top of the waiting pile, and adding Norton's on top of that.  "They're married."

          "Oh," Harrison said, nodding, "to her daughters."

          "No, Harrison, to each other," Debi informed him matter-of-factly.

          "Each other?"

          Ironhorse took the bag out of Harrison's hand and added it to the stack.

          "They're gay," Suzanne explained.

          "Oh."

          Taking over the luggage cart, Ironhorse directed it down the hall several feet and pushed the button for the elevator.

          "Come on, Doc," Norton said, slapping Harrison on the arm and rolling to join Paul.  "Let's go home."

          "They're gay?"

          "And married," Debi added.  "Since 1980.  That's longer than Mom and Dad lasted."  She left the astrophysicist and her mother, to help the colonel maneuver the cart onto the elevator.

          Suzanne slipped her arm around Harrison's.  "Come on.  I'll explain if you have any questions."

          Blackwood shot her a frown.  "I know what it means, but how did Paul—?"

          "Harrison, that's something for the next visit.  Think of it as a TV season cliff-hanger."

          "But—"

          "Come on, people!"

          "Why am I always the last to know anything?"

          "You're not," Suzanne reassured as they stepped on the elevator to join the other.  "You're just the one who asks all the questions.  If you knew all the answers, what would you have left to ask?"

          "There's nothing wrong with good healthy curiosity, Suzanne," he defended.  "It's what makes up good scientists."

          "And a royal pain in the butt," Ironhorse added under his breath.

          "Why do I feel like I'm missing something here?"

          Norton smiled.  "Paranoid, Doc?"

          "No, you really _are_ out to get me."

          Laughter filled the elevator.  It was time to go home.

The End


End file.
